Four Unpublished Novels

by Frank Herbert

  “You make it sound horrible.”

  “Depends on your point of view. When you come right down to it, that’s what all life’s really like.”

  “Men! You spread your damned philosophy around like a dirty smell. It spoils everything it touches!”

  Jeb chuckled.

  The plane droned onward. More and more orange crept into the light as the sun sank lower. Jeb glanced at his wristwatch. “Almost there. Timed just about perfect for the light.”

  “It wasn’t so dangerous after all, was it?” asked Monti.

  “We’ve been lucky,” said Jeb. “If we …” He broke off, stared ahead. A thick blue column of smoke arose from the jungle-carpeted hills.

  “Looks like a fire,” said Monti.

  Jeb nodded, throttled back.

  The plane crossed the snake-track winding of the river. He banked, began a slow glide toward the water, keeping as much attention as he could on the smoke.

  “What would they be burning?” asked Monti.

  “Probably clearing land,” said Jeb.

  The plane swept out over a wide reach of water.

  Jeb tensed.

  A line of dugouts swarming with coppery backs stretched across the river. All faced downstream. Paddles foamed in the water.

  Downriver from the Indians stood a single canoe with one figure in it, a white man in an Aussie hat, tan clothes. Desperation showed in the way he flailed the river with his paddle.

  “Something’s wrong,” said Jeb.

  The lone figure suddenly stopped paddling, took up a rifle. He turned, fired at the pursuing dugouts. One canoe overturned. The others scattered for shore. Water geysered in front of the retreating canoes as the rifleman fired once more. He put down the rifle, looked up at the plane sweeping overhead. Now, he lifted his paddle, waved downstream with frantic, chopping gestures.

  “Is it Daddy?” asked David. His voice came out high-pitched, squeaking.

  “I couldn’t see,” said Monti. She turned toward Jeb.

  “It looked like Gettler,” said Jeb. He dropped the flaps, banked to circle back. In that moment, the nightmare premonition came back like a tight band around his chest.

  Death and a river! And Maria’s vision!

  “What’re you going to do?” asked Monti.

  “Land and pick him up.”

  “Why was he shooting at those Indians?” asked David.

  “David! Please be quiet!” barked Monti.

  The plane passed over the dugout a bare ten feet off the water, splashed down ahead of it. Jeb reached back, pulled the magnum revolver from the seat pocket, circled back toward the canoe.

  Now, there was no mistaking the occupant of the canoe: It was Bannon’s partner, Franz Gettler. He was a heavyset blond man with sharp Teutonic features, overhanging eyebrows. There was a bull-like quality to the man, a brutal and instinctive violence to his movements. He paddled with swift dipping motions that rocked his canoe, sent it surging toward the plane.

  Jeb scanned the matted greenery of both banks for a sign of the pursuers. There was nothing. Only the overturned dugout floated sideways downstream like the back of a floating alligator—the sole reminder of violence.

  Monti put a hand over her mouth. “Something’s happened to Roger! I can feel it!”

  Gettler’s canoe came under the left wing, swung in beside the float. Jeb opened his door.

  “You’re a blooming miracle!” shouted Gettler. “Let’s get the hell out of here! Fast!”

  “Jivaro?” asked Jeb.

  “You’re damned right: Jivaro!”

  “Where’s Bannon?”

  Gettler grabbed the strut. “Dead!” He handed his rifle up to Jeb. The plane rocked to the man’s weight as he lifted himself up onto the float. Jeb passed the rifle back to David, leaned forward as Gettler clambered into the rear.

  “They attacked about an hour ago,” panted Gettler. “No warning. No damn warning at all!”

  Jeb slammed his door, swung the plane downriver.

  “They must’ve spitted Bannon at least ten times,” said Gettler.

  Monti gasped, bit her lower lip.

  Jeb heard a sob from David. “This is Mrs. Bannon and their boy,” he said. He scanned the water for obstructions, pushed the throttle ahead. The plane’s nose lifted.

  Something splashed into the river directly in front of them. There came a booming roar from the bank to heir right. A crashing sound of torn metal filled the air. The plane shook violently, and the motor set up an immediate clattering, banging. Jeb throttled back, passed the revolver to Gettler. “Use this! They’re on the right bank!”

  “What’s happened?” asked Monti.

  “Muzzle-loader,” said Jeb. “They hit the engine.”

  The thick smell of burning oil filled the cabin. Dark smoke clouded the air, streamed in the vents. Jeb closed them. The plane held a speed of about twenty miles an hour, but the motor coughed and bucked as though it would quit any moment.

  Monti’s voice climbed almost to a scream. “They’re going to catch us!”

  “Not unless the engine conks out,” gritted Jeb. He scanned his instrument panel, fussed with the mixture. The motor smoothed slightly, but its racket was still deafening.

  The plane’s right hand door swung open. The magnum revolver roared in their ears. A stench of cordite was added to the oil smoke.

  They rounded a bend in the river. Jeb opened the throttle another notch, reduced it as the motor increased its erratic banging.

  “I think we’ve got a badly cracked head … and probably worse,” said Jeb. “It’ll never get us off the water.”

  Monti stared at him. “What’ll we do?”

  “If we can’t fly, we’ll float,” said Jeb. “We’ll try to reach the army post downstream.”

  “Army post!” said Gettler. “One sergeant and a radio!”

  “We’ll make it if we can stay afloat,” said Jeb.

  Again the magnum roared.

  They rounded another bend. The river stretched ahead, shimmering with a glassy haze. In that moment, the sun sank behind the mountains, and the sky became a luminous silver.

  For the first time, Jeb had a moment to take stock of the situation. And a thought smashed through his mind, stunning him: A river and death!

  He shook his head. Nuts! It’s just a coincidence! But there was Maria’s vision … Christ! Next thing I’ll be wearing an amulet of monkey balls!

  A roar from Gettler shattered Jeb’s musing, “Hey, kid! Leave that rifle alone!”

  “I’ll kill ’em!” screamed David. “They killed my Dad! I’ll kill ’em! I’ll kill ’em!”

  The plane rocked to a struggle in the rear.

  “I said leave that rifle be, kid!”

  Jeb looked back as Gettler forced David into a corner, wrenched away the rifle, and jammed it behind the rear seat.

  David’s face was contorted. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He had lost all of his pseudo-adult reserve.

  Gettler said, “I’m sorry, kid, but you might kill one of us.”

  Monti spoke in a tone of washed-out calm: “David, try to be brave … and quiet.” She took a quavering breath. “You won’t help by making a commotion in here.”

  And she thought: That was a dirty trick … a dirty, stinking, filthy trick you played on me, God! Letting me arrive just when it was too late! She buried her face in her hands. I mustn’t think this way! I mustn’t think at all!

  A feeling swept over her that she was up for try-out in a new play—without script or rehearsal, without knowing the words or music, or what part she had to take.

  “I think we’ve outdistanced them,” said Gettler. He closed the right hand door, sank back into the seat behind Jeb.

  David chewed his lower lip, stared out the window. It’s all her fault, he thought. If it hadn’t been for her, Dad never would’ve come here. Always jawing at him! Never giving him a moment’s peace!

  Jeb raised his voice above the banging engine sound, spoke
over his shoulder: “Are you sure … about Bannon?”

  Gettler spoke carefully, as though balancing his words one against another: “I’m sure. They hit our cultivation crew about six-thirty, when the men were all tired and ready to quit for the day. I was out on the river knocking over some ’gators, or they’d have got me, too.”

  “You were damned lucky,” said Jeb.

  “Yes. I heard the shouting, then I saw Rog come out of the house with a rifle. But there were a couple of them at the back of the house by then. They came through the house and got him before he could turn.”

  “They’ve been chasing you ever since?” asked Jeb.

  “Yes. I knocked off several from the river, then got the hell out of there. Thought I was done until you showed up. What brought you?”

  “Mrs. Bannon and the boy were coming for a visit.”

  Gettler cleared his throat. “You picked a bad time to visit. I’m certainly glad you did, though.”

  Jeb mulled over Gettler’s story. Something about it bothered him. He was out shooting alligators. Would the Indians attack across cultivated land—out in the open—if they heard rifle fire? I always thought they were more cautious than that. Unless it’s a religious war of some kind.

  “What set them off?” asked Jeb.

  “God knows.” Gettler leaned forward. “Is that motor going to hold out?”

  “God knows that, too,” said Jeb. “Did you kill any ’gators before the attack?”

  Gettler’s voice was suddenly wary: “Why?”

  “I’m looking for a reason for the attack.”

  “I got two of them,” said Gettler. “But the Indians don’t object to killing ’gators.”

  So he was shooting—according to him, thought Jeb. And the Indians would’ve heard rifle fire.

  “We’re far enough ahead now,” said Gettler. “Better try your radio. Maybe you can contact that army post.”

  “We don’t have a radio,” said Jeb.

  Gettler said, “Ugh!” as though someone had hit him. Then: “Well, it’s less than eighty miles to the post.”

  “We’ll make it tonight some time, given any luck at all,” said Jeb. He glanced at his instrument panel through eyes watering from the oil smoke. “I hope she doesn’t start to overheat.”

  Monti began to sob: dry and wracking. Her shoulders jerked as though she were fighting away from someone.

  “I’m sorry,” said Gettler. “There was nothing I could do. Nothing.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Jeb saw one of Gettler’s long-fingered hands come forward, stroke Monti’s hair. It was a sensuous gesture—disquieting.

  Monti shook her head. Gettler withdrew his hand.

  The river channel narrowed to no more than twice their wingspan. They were hemmed in by a shadowy wall of over-hanging trees. Jeb snapped on the landing lights. They picked out two caverns of brilliance that soon became filled with fluttering, darting insects. The light touched the riverbank, outlined twisting medusa roots that clutched the dark red clay.

  A melon curve of new moon lifted into the eastern sky. It was the color of molten copper: the color of a native’s back glistening in the sun.

  Gettler tipped his head back, stared up at the moon. He felt the false coolness of the plastic cushion against his neck. It carried a reminder of civilization—refinement. For the first time since he’d started running, he allowed himself to think.

  I get another chance! A tight smile played along his lips. You were wrong, Rog: I did get away with killing you! He thought of the surprised look in Bannon’s eyes when the bullet smashed into him. Just that once they’d lost their irritating calmness. If only those bastard Indians hadn’t been watching! Always sneaking around! Spying! And who would’ve thought they’d give a damn whether one white man killed another!

  He put his left hand into the game pocket of his hunting jacket, felt the four leaf-wrapped packets: four raw emeralds of the clearest transparency, their color a rich, vibrant green with the luminosity of crème de menthe. The smallest would cut down to ten carats; the largest would go three times that size. And there was no real way to tell how many more there were in the clay mountain behind the rancho.

  You were stupid, Rog, thought Gettler. Just plain stupid to think I’d forget such a find just to save your noble savages! The dark shadow of Monti stirred in front of Gettler, sent him off on a new tangent in his soundless conversation with the dead man: And, Rog—if I want—maybe I can have your woman, too. How’s that for a joke?

  Reflections from the landing lights revealed the interior of the plane, distracted Gettler from his musing. The soft curve of fabric overhead filled him with a sense of luxury. Every glint of light on chrome—the foxfire green of phosphorescent dials, the purposeful controls added to this feeling. He thought of what the gems in his pocket meant in wealth and luxury. His mind rejected the uneven banging of the damaged motor, and he imagined himself flying smoothly over the jungle: over everything unclean and contaminated.

  Jeb Logan had gambled his life too many times on his ability to detect motor trouble by ear alone, and now he could not blank out that irritant clamor as Gettler had. He tolerated the sound for an hour and ten minutes, then turned off the ignition, nosed the plane into deep sedge at the upriver end of a narrow island.

  In the sudden stillness, the whining hum of insects came to them like a memory of the engine sound. Then the metallic chime-call of river frogs intruded. The wing lights picked out the cold green reflection of their eyes. Jeb turned off the lights. The coughing bark of a red monkey sounded from the left bank. Patrolling bats flickered overhead, and skimmed the water to drink.

  David spoke in a low, frightened voice: “Why’ve we stopped?”

  “I want a look at that motor,” said Jeb.

  Monti stirred from a lethargic crouch, looked around. I don’t know what’s happened to me, she thought. It’s too soon to think. I won’t think yet.

  “Is the motor any worse?” asked Gettler.

  “Probably,” said Jeb. He stared out at the darkness, sensed the watching animal life around them, thought: When you’re in the jungle there’s nothing else. It flows over you, through you. And it says: “You’re nothing! I could chop you down anytime!”

  “What do you mean probably?” asked Gettler.

  “I mean it sure as hell can’t be getting any better from the sound of it,” said Jeb. “There’s a flashlight wedged on the ledge behind you. Hand it here, please.”

  Gettler passed the flashlight forward.

  Jeb took it, said: “You can start unlashing that Jeep can beneath your feet. I want to dump it into the wing tanks and get rid of the can. Too much fire hazard this way.”

  “Can’t we put up with it this way until we get to the army post?” asked Gettler.

  “Just give me the can,” said Jeb.

  Gettler grunted, bent to feel the lashings. “How much gas do we have?” he asked.

  “There’s about three gallons in that can, and one more full one in the luggage compartment behind you, plus about forty gallons remaining in the wing tanks.”

  He opened his door, swung down onto the float. Immediately, the insects descended upon him. He felt them swarming over his face, touching his lips, his nose, his eyes. When he turned on the flashlight some left for the new attraction. Jeb worked his way forward, dropped into the sedge, waded across to the other float, climbed up. The light revealed a jagged hole in the cowl. He lifted the flap, shone the light inside.

  The bullet has smashed into the head of the first cylinder, ricocheted back and down. Smoke curled out of a crack along the cooling baffles and through a hole torn in the valve cover. A splinter of metal had smashed the top plugs on the first two cylinders. The bullet had taken out the bottom plug on the second cylinder. That left four cylinders, and the motor completely unbalanced.

  Jeb shrugged. What a mess!

  “How bad is it?” called Gettler.

  “We’ve got four cylinders,” said Jeb. “
I started out with six.” He closed the cowl flap, turned to emptying the gas cans.

  Presently, the smell of gasoline filled the air. It drove away some of the insects. Jeb straddled the cowl, listened to the gas gurgle into the tank. The moon set while he worked. He looked up: a wilderness of stars flooded the sky. And when he lowered his gaze, he could see the tremulous shimmering of the stars on the river surface. Quite suddenly, the river became for him an immense loneliness locked between jungle walls. He sniffed the odorous night: thick with the baited and the repelling perfumes that marked one line in the jungle’s endless battleground.

  What if the Indians beat us to that army post and the radio? he wondered. We have to follow the river. They could go straight over the hills—or signal ahead with drums.

  In that moment, Jeb realized that there was no way to beat the Indians to the army post if this was actually a race. He tossed the last empty can into the sedge, slid down to the float, found a length of driftwood that he used to push the plane off into the current.

  Monti came out of her lethargy. “Have we gotten away from them?” she asked.

  “I think so … at least for now,” said Jeb. He wedged the pole against the strut, clambered back inside, slammed the door.

  “You’re sure this thing won’t fly?” asked Gettler.

  “I’m sure.” Jeb handed back the flashlight, said: “If anybody’s hungry, there’s K-ration in that big valise in the luggage compartment. You can pull your seat-back forward to get at it.”

  Gettler took the light, said: “Here, kid. Hold the flash for me.” The light flared, threw raw shadows ahead. A blackish brown helicon butterfly hurled itself against the windshield, clung there.

  “I’m not hungry,” said Monti. She slapped at insects on her arms and neck.

  “I don’t feel like eating, either,” said David.